Can't Sleep, Time to ramble.

Someone said I sound like David Sedaris the other day. I was rambling a bit, talking about something actually mildly depressing, but in a matter-of-fact way that poked fun at the fact that it was depressing. Purposefully ironic, I suppose. Yeah, I guess that's Sedaris.

I felt complimented.

My google ads are down. Yay. I won't make my twenty bucks this month. Yawn. Apparently once they finally have enough to actually warrant paying you, they require that you actually verify your home address. Since I don't actually HAVE a home address, I never bothered to get that done. Fancy that. Guess good ol' mom'll have to email me the Goog PIN number when it arrives in the mail.

Super secure.

Been back at university now for a few days. Basically haven't left the house. It was kinda stunning to realize that I don't really have any friends here. I called the dozen or so girls that I started ignoring in November when I dropped off the radar, and surprise! most of them didn't call me back. I got three or four return contacts of some kind (facebook/text/call), but by the time they did I didn't really want to bother.

Then I totally flaked on a party last night. And the night before. Sigh. What's that feeling? Fish out of water? Tired all the time? Surprised when I look in the mirror?

Old.

I need some sun. And some sleep. I'm pale and have dark circles under my eyes. The ones that have been there since November. Yay.

SBH called tonight. It was awkward, then forced, then finally almost-relaxed. A subtle reminder, perhaps, about how shockingly little we have in common. Or that, perhaps, we're both depressed bitches over the holidays and it's the first time either of us has actually talked to anyone in weeks. Maybe that's it. Without that whole ulterior motive thing, anyway.

I miss her.

There's an 8am class I should probably try to get into in about 90 minutes here. Do I really wanna get up and try to do this? Or should I try to get into the time slot I'd prefer tomorrow and then go to an 8am next week if I don't get in? Sigh. I probably won't go to any of them in either event anyway. Who am i kidding. It's a stats class I could've passed in 8th grade. Oh, wait. Maybe there will be cute chicks in class. That IS why I'm here.

Grunt. Chicks.

Grunt.

I miss something. I'm just not sure what. Or who. Or how.

I remember, rationally, feeling amazing when I got back from Texas fling last year. I remember wanting to hold onto that and rejecting everything that had been getting me by, which of course sent me into a minor tailspin.

I remember, then, feeling like I was forgetting something. An emotion, perhaps, or some feeling of belonging. I wanted to hold onto it so I could go after it when I saw it again.

Well, I forgot. I don't even remember what it was I was trying to remember. Sweet!

Ignorance is bliss, after all.

I took one of those random IQ tests online a little while ago. I'm tired, and I wasn't really in the groove, but I scored pretty low. Well, no, not actually low, but low for me. Drinking really does kill brain cells. I'm living proof!

So if ignorance is bliss and alcohol makes you dumber, maybe you really can drink yourself to happiness.

Hmmm. We shall see. I'm dropping, what, 2 IQ points a year? Sweet. I'll be average by the time I'm 45. Should be able to find me a picket fence and "normal" chick, then. Cuz I won't be bored anymore. Heh.

I was just thinking about how I wished I had a girl in bed next to me right this minute. And then I thought, well, no... actually. Several faces popped into my head, and with most of them, I'm glad I'm alone right now. LOL.

I wonder if that's a catalyst or a result. The ability to sleep together. Like... for the bedmates one has where everything just fits (after the dirty fitting is, ahem, fitted, I mean), and you both have the same patterns, like needing a sheet or not, or each wanting your own blanket, or if you're both side sleepers, etc. I wonder if you have chemistry elsewhere and that just falls into place, if it actually effects your feelings about the other person, or if it's completely irrelevant.

I think that there is a correlation between level of emotional attachment and that chemistry. I've had the same girl feel like an extension of my own body one week and completely distant the next. Like sleeping with your buddy in a tent kinda distant. It's fine, not a big deal, but yeah, you'd really be more comfortable if you each had your own double.

The worst is when you want her to leave you alone and she just won't... stop... trying... to cuddle. When you wake up, cold, without a blanket, with no pillow and 8 inches of mattress on a king size bed. Jeeeezus, girl. What, did ya sleep with your mom til you were 19? daaaamn.

Cuddling is cute. Smothering isn't.

OK, I'm feeling tired now. Good thing my class starts in 80 minutes. (yawn)

Happy New Year

So there are, what, 6 regular readers? There's probably one or two women who check up on me once or twice a quarter just so they can feel jaded again.

There's two good friends of mine, one with whom I share IPAs and another who works as hard (or at least as late) as I do.

And there's the christian, who said he had to delete the RSS feed a few days ago when he couldn't bare to read my last post about hating women. C'est la vie, my friend.

There's the good friend who isn't a friend because her religion says so. How's that arms-length observation treating you, A?

Anyway. Happy New Year.

--

So I don't have any resolutions. And unlike every year in recent memory, I'm not depressed today. I don't care about the woman that is not in my life but was on Thanksgiving (always happens). I was a grinch this year and it was fine... almost enjoyable, in fact, although that is, perhaps, a relative judgment. (And against the sentiment that it would take a month for anyone to even actually find me if I never woke up one day, well, working on xmas is pretty goddamn awesome.)

Life is... well. Good.

--

So I'd like to do something cathartic today instead of just an expression of raw emotion. I've been thinking about therapy, about what it would entail, about if it would actually help my mindset or my situation, and about what I'd talk about in the first six weeks, which is all just get-to-know-you bullshit anyway.

I think I need to get some shit off my chest. I need to write a few letters. They need not be read (indeed, I don't even know who you are, unless you happen to be mentioned 7 paragraphs up). They need not even be true as I write them, as admittedly many of the things I say here aren't. (Well, they are, but sometimes they expire as soon as they're expressed.)

So anyway. I'm makin' a list and I'm checkin' it twice. But this is only of the naughties:

Laura the slutbag.

Dad.

Maybe:

Mom.

Amanda.

--

Here we go. No time like the present.

Laura,

I hate you. No, really. I've thought about this for two years. I've fought it, I've taken it on myself, and I've replayed my life, my actions, and my betrayal ten thousand times each.

It was not my fault. It was nothing I did. It was not that I was too nice, or a doormat, or not present enough, or looked at you at times as a consolation prize. It was not because I was did not hold you on high and fell in love with you not because you were emotionally available and selfless but because simply that you were always there.

I confused "always there" with "always there for me" for two years. I was wrong. That was my mistake and the reality that I must face.

I was a fool. A fool to love you, a fool to love you, and a fool to let myself be vulnerable to you. I saw your presence as a form of love, and while the good man that is left inside me can reach far and stretch to imagine that it was "your version" of love, I really don't give a fuck.

I may have entered our relationship with expectations that were a little less than completely healthy. I wanted the fairy tale, then I wanted anyone, then, finally, noticing that you were always there, I thought that would be enough.

And you were always there. When you wanted to be, which was almost all of the time. You just weren't there for ME. You were there for selfish reasons.

You were there because I treated you well. Because I stimulated you on multiple levels. Because of what I could do for you.

You were never there because you loved me.

In retrospect, of course I should never have seen you as more than a fuck buddy. We had a great time in those days, and I was free to still discover just how few single women of quality there were in the east bay.

Of course I should've seen you as nothing more than a selfish girl. You never wanted to talk about "real" things except to dismiss my hunger for emotional connection. Even if it was with you. Especially if it was with you.

Not until long after you uttered "I love you" were you ever willing to even acknowledge that I had what you called "dad issues". Even then, it was not comfort you offered, but condemnation.

I was good to you until the end. To this day, sometimes, I still wonder, in fact. If I were a stronger man, if I could find it in my heart to ever forgive you... etc.

But you know what? I shouldn't have been good to you. I should've told the truth.

The truth is, there's a word to describe you, your behavior, and what you did to me. Or, perhaps, there is a word for the first two. The last one...

You're a whore. You disgust me. I am ashamed that I ever loved you. I feel stupid because I allowed you to hurt me so badly, so sharply, and so deeply.

What you did makes you a whore. What you did to me, a man that adored you, a man that made you strive to be a better person than you wanted to be, a man that treated you better than any woman I've ever met deserves to be treated, makes you something far worse. I cannot think of a word bad enough to attribute to you. "Cunt" comes to mind, but even that just isn't bad enough. It only has shock value.

I truly, honestly, and although it pains me to admit it, hope that you, in fact, are NOT happy. I hope that you feel the pain that I did, that I still feel when I think about it, about you, and about the shadow of a man I am and have become because of you.

I am embarrassed to admit it, but I hope you suffer. I hope that a place like hell exists just so terrible, selfish, cruel people like you go there. I hope that an eternal soul exists just so that you can burn forever.

I miss the person I used to be, Laura. I miss the willingness to hope, the faith in fairy tales, the lack of fear with which I approached relationships with women. I miss, so badly, the comfortable place, even while being completely lonely, that pre-Laura version of me lived in. I miss looking at women not with suspicion, an eye towards conquest, or simply derision, but instead the genuine, magnanimous position I once enjoyed.

And it's your fault. I've been over and over and over this, and I've taken the blame a thousand times, whether it was knowing better than to fall for you or simply not letting what you did bother me -- change me -- so much. And while I'd really like to take the higher road and say that I'm responsible, that I'm a grown up and have to manage the consequences of my own actions... fuck that.

You're a whore, and YOU did this. You broke the rules. You said you love me and made it a lie. You fucked up.

You changed me. Not me. I was good to you. The evil in me today is mostly BECAUSE of you. And yes, while I am an adult and have to live with, get through, and ultimately "deal" with all of this, you did this to me.

It's not my fault. Abused kids are not bad kids.

Men who are cheated on are not inherently weak, bad, or stupid. It is not a lack of masculinity, a lack of sexual prowess, an affinity for turning the other cheek too often, or any other such loosely related bullshit. It is not that I was stupid, that I was not good enough, or that I wasn't making you cum.

It is not that I could not or did not provide anything and everything you ever wanted enough to even articulate within the confines of your own selfish skull.

It is not me.

It was not me.

It has never been, never was, and never could be me. There is no rationalizing this point. There is no negotiation, no what-if exercises, no wondering, no debate.

You said you loved me. You said you were loyal. You betrayed me.

For that, I hope you burn in hell. I hope you think of me every holiday and feel remorse. I hope you masturbate to my memory and then feel foolish because you can never know my touch again. I hope you die young, alone, "independent" in your stupid fucking "city girl" ways and no one cries at your funeral.

I hope that you never ever know love. Not the apparently unrequited version that I gave you, not some superficial version that seems rampant in SF, not even the arms-length version that you and I played for so long before you set the stage for your betrayal by telling me sweet nothings. Nothings that were, after all was said and done, so very very far from nothing and so very much the antithesis of everything I had ever expected -- from you, from a woman, from anyone. Let alone hoped and dreamed.

I would be a better man had I never met you, Laura. There was no "lesson" there. There was nothing I learned that made me grow or otherwise change in a positive way.

"You go to hell! You go to hell and you die!"

Whore.

Another month, another girl. Adieu, SBH.

I was resigned to letting my Snowboard Hottie (SBH) go, having a quick hook up with her a week at a time on holidays and other bay area visits.

I had relegated her to what-if status. "I like her, but..." status.

And then a friend (married, natch) told me I was a coward. That I should grab it by the horns. Ask her. Feel her out. Find out.

Well, I did. I was genuine, and nice, and not Alfie. I was me. I called, I hugged, I felt, I engaged, and I fell.

How far remains to be seen. You never know what you got 'til it's gone, as that screechy voiced chick says. And the good version covered by the Counting Crows.

Tonight I left her, without tears, after a drama free whirlwind romance, after allowing myself to feel and showing up at her doorstep and just wanting to be with her instead of expecting to fuck, after showing the bad boy and then releasing the good.

Tonight I left.

"Talk soon?" she said. "If you want to," I answered.

But I won't call. And she'll call, once, on Friday, before she leaves town for the holidays.

She'll wonder how I'm doing, and I won't call back. Then we'll see each other two years from now, and she'll be with someone who is half the man I am, and she'll see me and want to fuck me, want me to kiss her, want me to embrace her, and want me to let my guard down like it was yesterday.

And I won't. And she'll always wonder.

I'm mad, now, because all you fucks who tell me not to play the game are full of shit. All you fucks who insist that being myself is not a bad play, that the sensitive, nice guy that is not Alfie can find a woman who appreciates him.

FUCK OFF. You don't know shit.

Because I could've fucked her for the next 2 years and loved her in my own way. I could have had her, and loved her, and been loved back, however distant it might be, and it would have been fine. I could have kept her at arms length, while I went home to the desert and fucked my red-headed engineer, my brunette nurse, and my blonde what-the-fuck-was-her-major-anyway, and loved her in a way that is not intense, almost real, and completely eaten up by 99% of the goddamn female population in spite of themselves.

But, instead, I got emotional, I got attached, I started to fall, and instead of fucking her brains out the moment I saw her, I asked her how her day was.

And tonight, she wanted to "have a quick drink". Great. Either she's pregnant or she's breaking up with me.

Turns out it was both. Until we went and bought a goddamn $10 stress-reducing test, of course. And then we were left with no stress, no cell division, no connection and a Dear John.

So, the next time you fuckers want to open up your goddamn mouths, the next time you want to approach me, and tell me to "let go", or call me a coward for not embracing a young lady I think I could fall for, or tell me that there are women out there that don't cheat, or say some bullshit like "quality women are at church", get stuffed.

And now, a little word from my good friend Alfie:

+ Women don't respect you for being nice, for getting the door, or for treating them well. They respect you for your car, your platinum, and you cock size. Put another way, it's all bullshit until you make them cum. Shut up and bend her over. That's the only way you'll make a lasting impression.

+ The smart ones cheat, the dumb ones are still dumb, the old ones are cynical, and the young ones don't give good head. Basically, just find the hottest, youngest tail you can find, because the quality ain't gonna change regardless. At least then your friends will respect you because they wanna fuck your girl.

+ The bad boy with a nice streak play works really well on late-20s cynics. Younger than 25 or slightly damaged, and just be mean. They say they want to be treated well, but that's a crock of shit. Fuck as fast as you can. Nice guys don't get laid. After you fuck, DO NOT STOP playing the game. You can take more liberties, but the moment you feel yourself getting attached, just rest assured that she's cheating on you. Then you'll start acting appropriately towards her, which, ironically, stupidly, categorically contradictingly, will make her more attracted to you.

+ Nice girls just cheat less. Or they're better actresses.

+ Yeah, I'm bitter. Until you've walked a mile in my shoes, shut the fuck up. Oh, and by the way, is your sister single?

+ Further to that thought, I hate you. I hate women, I hate married people, I hate happy people, I hate poor people, I hate rich people, I hate ghetto people, and I hate your mom. Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate HATE.

+ One day I will learn. One day I will actually take my own advice and stop hoping.

+ Do NOT spend the night and not fuck. EVER. In fact, unless you have to leave before she wakes up to get to the office where you make the money that got her to spread her legs in the first place, fuck her twice. I don't care if she's sick. I don't care if you're a nice guy. I don't care if you like her. If you have to do a gesture of goodwill, drop off some fucking Nyquil, get her a glass of water, kiss her on the forehead, and then take your happy ass home. Or, better yet, go out with the next girl on your list.

Just a quck something off my chest

Another family-derived hook up this past weekend. We'll call her Snowboard chick. We met three years ago, but I "always had a girl on my arm".

We slept together four days in a row starting thanksgiving night. I'm pretty bummed today, because I left her this morning with few words, wondering if I was going to get teary.

"Well. You live far away, and I'm moving god knows where in 4-6 months anyway, and even if you did live here we're both really busy.

"So I'm left with... enjoying our time together. Enjoying you, and us, today, and the experience.

"I mean, yes, call me, don't get me wrong, I want to see you again, and I miss you just thinking about it, but all we can do is enjoy each other for right now.

"Besides, you'll be back to the bay area before too long. Stay with me next time."

Yeah, she's awesome. I just can't help but wonder why it took so long to hook up. Why not this time a year ago? Heh.

So... I'm not teary. I'm bummed, to be sure, and obviously distracted (I have 20 hours of work to do in the next 8, but am I working on that!?), but not actually down. Not hopeful, either, but perhaps wondering if I should be. I guess we'll see, right...

--

btw, Ayla, Happy Birthday. I thought of you this week and wondered where you were and what you were doing. I hope that you had fun and that you're well.

Childhood memories

The women from my childhood seem to be showing up in droves this year.

First there was Brandy, who I ran into at Starbucks right before I left the state. Was it two kids or three? Married for a decade. A little chubbier, a lot older, and a lot less flirtatious. Then again, I was a scrub that day -- it had been a week since I'd shaved, I was in gym clothes and a sweatshirt, and I'm pretty sure I needed a haircut.

I do remember actively choosing not to ask for her number. I'd hate to ask for it and then not call. I do remember offering her the seat opposite me and telling her she should stay and chat. She was off to work, however. So far off the radar now (I knew she got married years ago), but it is food for thought in this context.

Then there's Presh. Boy was that an internal roller coaster ride. I haven't spoken or even traded email with her since that day I saw her. I suppose I just don't know what to say... not wanting to hide the feelings seeing her evoked, yet certainly not wanting to convey them.

I wonder if I ever really told her. Not like that, I didn't. Of that I'm sure. The one that got away, I suppose. It's a bit strange to realize that I have one of "those".

Then this week there's Mary jam (a nickname someone gave her years ago. it never really took in a way that, say, "aflie" did). I saw her on the train on Thursday, met for lunch on Friday, hung out with her last night.

It was great. The double-edged sword that is a lifetime of history created an odd dynamic. We got together, and it was like old friends catching up. Instead of "What do you do?", we had "Have you seen so-and-so?", "Do you still go to the same church?", and "How's your mom?" to work with.

We trusted each other right off the bat. There were no axe-murderer or Fatal Attraction worries. Everything bad that we both hold back was already out there. We knew each others parents already, for godsakes, and so the Hitler explanation (my dad) and the busybody mom (hers) were simply passing references that needed hardly an explanation. There were certainly no eyebrows being raised nor wondering about just how psycho the other party might be. We already thought one another insane; the reality of any interim maturation was an improvement over the memory anyway.

But the history was a negative, too. The rumor-mill repercussions, the opinions of relatives (who could care less about a date with a stranger/potential axe murderer, ironically), and the vague idea that any drama would be magnified ten-fold hung over our heads. She held back flirtation and I reciprocated. I was less agressive and she kissed pensively. I've no doubt that we've collectively had sex literally thousands of times, and yet our initial romantic interactions were, like two virgins, clumsy and tentative.

It was nice. Nicer than I thought it would be. Cloudy from history, certainly, yet intimacy was immediate from that same history. It was downright refreshing to just "let it all hang out", because, again, she already knew far worse than the reality of the present-day me could ever rightly convey, even abstractly.

Now, the rumors will traverse the network of relatives pretty quickly. At least 3-4 people on both sides know that we "hung out".

Hopefully I'll have left the state again by the time it circles back 'round. Hey, it could happen. Even if Thanksgiving is this week... (gulp)

Back "home"

I thought of Texas today and felt sad. I wasn't sad because I missed her, or missed a certain feeling, or missed the place, the sensations, or the intimacy.

I felt sad because I can't remember. I remember words and vague images. I remember moments and I remember what it felt like to miss her when she was gone.

But I don't remember her.

I remember saying, a long time ago, now, "it doesn't matter that it didn't, couldn't work out. It doesn't matter if it was all a fantasy that was born, lived, and died in my head, and she just played along in my cast. It doesn't matter, because even if it's only fantasy, even if it was make believe, I want it. I want that feeling, and wasting my time with XXXX and YYYYY, with bitches who aren't the one, with slutbags and idiots, with anyone who doesn't at least come close to that, is just a complete waste of time and energy."

I remember where I was when I said that. I remember what CD was on. I remember who I said it to. I remember from where I came, and I remember the bite of the cold air and the wet ground that met me when I finished that conversation.

But I can't remember that sensation. I can't remember what it felt like to feel that good, nor can I remember how fruitless it felt when I came home to my brothel of women who wanted to love me and never could.

It's good in some ways, of course. I don't remember crying to Smile Like You Mean It, not able to help myself. I don't remember what it felt like to be out with my friends, talking to girls, and leaving, alone, to cry in the car.

But maybe it was worth it.

It was a year ago, this week, when I drove to Texas. I came with a voice mail full of messages from girls who called me from seven area codes and two countries. I left with a lump in my throat, a text message on my phone, and the soft eyes one gets when holding back tears.

I called one of those girls back a couple of weeks ago. It was like the intervening year never happened. But it still fell a little flat.

I'm listening to music, now, to try and cry a little. Seemingly foolish, I know, but sometimes I need to remind myself I'm alive. Where the capacity for a gallon of tears exists there lives a passion for life and love that I fear might be dead.

But songs about Lauren lack bite. Songs about Presh have carried that vague "I hope she found her way" sentiment for a decade. Songs about Slutbag are just annoying.

Amanda's songs still have a little power. Ahh, Jewel. But it's just a faraway memory about a memory. Like remembering a dream from a week ago, in which, in the first place, you watched yourself as if in a movie... so far removed you're not even sure it really happened.

The beauty of apathy is the power to go on, the lack of wallowing, the small joys of enjoying a good meal, of making old friends and complete strangers laugh, of a game of catch with your nephew. The beauty of apathy is that duty carries you, that the small joys of accomplishment in work or school are noticed and appreciated, even if not quite felt.

The horror of that same apathy is the severe, blatant, obvious, and detrimental scourge that is the absence of passion. The fear that kissing a pretty girl might, forever and always, simply be a calculated exercise of pressure and skill, a stepping stone to some sort of physical connection that might lead to a session of memorable pillow talk, rather than the take-your-breath-away experience when time stops and all that is the burden of life melts as if never there in the first place.

I'm not sure I remember passion at all. I think, mostly, I just remember missing those moments when I realized they were gone.

--

I don't think the answer is being contentment through acceptance. I don't think it's a matter of "wanting what you got" as Sheryl Crow says.

I want my passion back. I need it. I miss it.

Even if being older means I'm more chill, more laid back, more able to handle stress and life's wild cards... it's not worth it if it cost me my passion.

Fuck acceptance. Fuck the simple life. I'm already "simple" in my materialism and needs.

But give me back my passion, even if it comes with pain.

(gulp)

broken, gone, couch-surfing, and other news

I'm on a couch somewhere east of Sacramento tonight. It's a little short for me.

I kinda miss being home. In Tucson. I'm not sure what I miss, exactly, other than the familiarity of my house and my room, the twisted pleasure of sitting at my desk with its two massive screens for far too long, or the simpler life that is imposed by being far away from a great many things that cause me stress.

Like people and tenants and... well, that's pretty much it, actually. Even my friends are stressful in their own ways, because I'm so goddamn empathic. Or empathetic. Or is it just pathetic? Psssh.

Presh tagged me on Facebook tonight. I got a caption on the photo of just the two of us reading "God it was good to see him". We have similar dorky smiles. Funny thing, that.

One of my best friends just got word a few days ago that his ex of four years is sleeping with someone new. He passed on her a million times, with awareness and reflection, yet still, somehow, is torn up inside over it.

I think he's an idiot, because he should've married that girl, but I get how he feels. It really sucks. Boys are stupid, perhaps, but it is in our biology. When we have deep emotional ties, it hurts us terribly to think of you with someone else. Even if we know you're not the one, or we think you're a slutbag, or...

whatever. I'm over that rant for the moment.

Speaking of sluts, Slutbag herself IM'd me the other day. I told my cousin about the interaction and he said, "Wow. You're still bitter?"

Yeah. I am. He pointed out that she probably thinks it's about her, that she's that dope of a chick, and that I'm still not over her in her mind.

I told him I don't care what she thinks.

I almost told her a lot worse. "I'm gonna say some things you don't want to hear. So, instead, I'm just going to close the window now. Late."

And that was that.

I hate her. I hate that her name appearing in some programming loop that runs in my web browser causes me to hold my breath. I hate that I'm not over what she did to me, that it has changed the way I look at women, and that I am NOT a better man for having known her. I hate that, in fact, I have less of a heart because of her.

I hate her for taking that away from me.

And I so want to tell her. I want to call her names 'til she cries and begs me to stop. And then I want her to look at me as I tell her, straight to her face, that it's still not enough. That she deserves her tears and that I don't wish her well. I don't want her to be happy, and that I'd be a better person had I never known her.

I want her to feel pain. I want her to know...

Sigh. No, I don't.

I wish I could be that angry, though. At least I know what to do with that emotion.

I never called her a bitch or a whore or a slut. I never told her how I felt. I never... I was still really good to her. To the end and always. Too good. Better than she ever deserved.

And a little part of me wishes I wasn't. A little part of me wants to cry out in the pain that is still very present, wants to take it out on every vagina that crosses my path, wants to use women, expecting nothing but heartache if I stick around long enough to hope, wants to...

Die.

--

I really miss feeling intimate with a chick. I know, gay, but I'd really like to spoon. Last time I did that was... gosh, can I even remember?

Probably texas.

--

Frank told me I should get a dog tonight when I was playing with Ava and Talus, and I just about laughed out loud. "Dude, you've lived with me. You know my lifestyle. There's no way. No fucking way."

To which Serino replied, "yeah, but when you get married you'll settle down some. You won't be into hustling so much."

I think I said something about how, actually, getting a dog instead of a chick seems a more likely scenario.

For me to get married would mean settling because I feel under some sort of external pressure. And who wants that?

That dose of reality is sorta funny in a Seinfeld-esque way. "So why did you ask me to marry you, darling?"

Christain: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity
Muslim: Because I really wanted to lose my virginity AND my family can afford your dowry.
Americans who fornicate: Because all my friends are getting married and my mom has been pushing me to shack up and shit out a kid or two.